


gold rush

by ashley_luv



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied Relationships, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, One Shot, POV Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Romantic Fluff, Theo and Blaise are icons, and they were ROOMMATES, content warning: implied war trauma, nothing too blatant or graphic bc that would make me sad, very gay Hogwarts, yes Harry and Draco get together and do all the wholesome things Draco dreamed about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashley_luv/pseuds/ashley_luv
Summary: Draco allowed the voices around him to drift into the background. He had never been less interested in his friends or their wagers; he had become obsessed with Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 54





	gold rush

**Author's Note:**

> After listening to way too much Taylor Swift and reading way too many Drarry fanfics, I knew I had to welcome the new year by writing my own little one-shot. This particular work is based on the song "gold rush." 
> 
> This is my first Drarry fic (and my return to writing Harry Potter fanfiction of any kind after years of a hiatus), so please forgive any errors :) Enjoy!

"Potter, has anyone ever told you how obnoxiously green your eyes are?"

A short pause.

"Wait, what?"

Blood rushed to Draco's face, painting his pale cheeks with a blush of pink.

"Nothing," Draco muttered, masking his embarrassment with a neutral tone. "Never mind."

Luckily, it was Potter's move, meaning he was more concerned with his screeching chess pieces than Draco's bizarre behavior. Shrugging it off, Potter refocused his gaze onto the chessboard. Many things had changed, but Potter's daftness certainly had not.

Draco supposed he should be grateful Potter had not noticed the recent blips in his behavior. But how could he relish Potter's mediocre observational skills when his self-inflicted pain dominated all other emotions? In mere weeks, Potter had reverted Draco to that eleven-year-old boy who wanted nothing more than to be friends with the great Harry Potter. And Draco would have been able to live with that because really, the feelings of annoyance, irritation, and even slight infatuation were not new.

But this time, his infatuation had morphed into a feeling far deeper than childhood obsession. When they were just two boys who deeply (dis)liked each other, Draco played it off as a rivalry. But ‘boy' was a term that no longer applied to Draco nor the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter was no longer the scrawny, small child who rejected Draco's hand all those years ago. Potter's body was taller, a bit leaner, with softly toned muscles hidden beneath tattered Muggle clothing. And while the rumors about Potter’s body were creative (ranging from Potter’s theoretical eight-pack to the more outlandish rumor that his body was covered in tattoos), Draco was more interested in its subtle beauties. The way Potter’s biceps curled when he reached for a book on a higher shelf, the way his fingers danced on his knee when he was bored in class, the way his calves flexed when he walked up staircases...

However, it went without saying that Draco was too much of a gentleman to ever peek at Potter's actual naked body. No matter how much his friends begged him to confirm or deny the rumor that Potter had a phoenix tattoo on his back with its tail slithering down certain places, he refused to do so. A normal person did not take longing glances at their roommate’s naked body. 

Draco blinked rapidly, realizing he had been staring much too intently at Potter _again_ , not that the oblivious git noticed. Honestly, Draco marveled that Potter managed to do all that he did during his time at Hogwarts and the war; he was the most unobservant, clueless bloke Draco had ever met (and Draco was friends with unbelievably stupid people).

 _Or maybe,_ Draco countered, _I am masterfully skilled in the art of playing it cool._

No, that wasn’t it. Draco did many things, but lie to himself was not one of them. Anyone with eyes could discern he liked Potter. Anyone, of course, except Potter himself.

One perk of Potter’s stupidity was that Draco could stare at him all he wished without repercussions. Having not seen Potter without the impending doom of war in years, Draco could admire Potter’s stupid face at his leisure. Age had been kind to him; Potter's face had grown into his once overly large glasses, and his jawline was perfectly acceptable by anyone’s standards. His shoulders no longer slouched like he wanted to make himself small (although Potter's posture was far from perfect). And his demeanor, once uncertain yet eager, had aged to give him the solemnity but peaceful countenance of a man who had lived through too much in too little time.

But the most vital shift— in Draco’s eyes, anyways— from eleven-year-old to eighteen-year-old Harry Potter was that, instead of rejecting Draco's hand and friendship at the beginning of the school year, Potter had offered _his_ hand and friendship. Even now, despite the months that have passed in the school year, Potter remained one of the very, _very_ few people who did not shun Draco.

Draco did not blame his classmates for their cold treatment. They had chosen to complete (or redo) their seventh year in search of community; they had _not_ chosen for that community to include former Death Eaters. But Headmistress McGonagall decreed Hogwarts would always welcome its students home, no matter which side of a war those students fought on. As such, Draco made the decision— wise or unwise, he had yet to decide— to return to Hogwarts and complete his studies. Perhaps no one would ever hire a former Death Eater, but it would not hurt if said former Death Eater received high marks on his N.E.W.T.'s and maybe a recommendation letter or two from his reputable professors.

So Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts, the terms of his house arrest shifting from never leaving Malfoy Manor to never leaving Hogwarts' grounds. He was one of a few former Slytherins to do so but, while he had initially felt relief to know he would have some allies at the school, it was all for naught. Why?

Because Headmistress McGonagall wanted to promote House unity. Because Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebot wanted to keep an eye on the flight risks. Because Fate hated him and was making him pay for his crimes against humanity.

And now here he was, stuck with Harry bloody Potter as a roommate and falling hopelessly more in love with each passing second.

"Check," Potter declared. Those very eyes Draco had just criticized were amused, and he met them with a nasty glare. Oh yes, they were much too green. It should be a crime for Potter to have eyes like that, ones that gleamed and twinkled without any source of light to illuminate them.

"Bugger," Draco grumbled, looking down at the chessboard. Bloody hell, how distracted had he been? Almost all his major pieces were glaring up at him from behind enemy lines, whereas Draco had only taken captive a few pawns. He could not possibly have been _this_ distracted by Potter's eyes.

Except, he had been.

Draco anticipated the reaction his embarrassment would have, but he braced himself far too late. The result was a flush of cheeks combined with a pained expression, a strange combination on anyone’s face. Potter’s smirk only deepened Draco’s internal mortification.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

Draco inhaled sharply, whipping his head to look up at Potter with wide eyes. Those words had been spoken by himself long ago. The particularly shrewd look in Potter's eyes signaled he, too, remembered that stupid duel in front of the school when they were merely twelve. Potter’s eyes had glistened with uncertain determination then; now, they were almost cheerful, confident at the impending victory.

What an absolute _git_.

"You wish," Draco grumbled, taking up Potter's old line. Ignoring the man’s gleeful expression, he evaluated the chessboard more seriously. If he continued to play, he would lose horribly. If he gave up now, he would still lose horribly but with his head held high. Thus, with a dramatic sigh of defeat, Draco reached for his somber king and placed the disappointed ruler face down.

Potter beamed. "You owe me five galleons," he reminded Draco with a boastful smile. "And a favor I get to cash in whenever."

Draco rolled his eyes, standing from his position on the floor. The carpet his mother had sent at the beginning of the school year made their bedroom floor a more comfortable place to sit than the chairs in the common room. Maybe it was strange to spend their free time holed away in their room, but this carpet was much too lovely to snub in favor of Hogwarts' dingy furniture.

"Whatever Potter," Draco grumbled, slipping his feet into his shoes and reaching for his robe. "We’re late for dinner anyway."

Potter snorted, but stood up as well to get dressed in proper robes. Despite all his fame and glory, he was still slightly shorter than Draco. It was a small victory, but one Draco relished all the same.

"You're just upset because I won again," Potter jabbed good-naturedly. Draco's sarcastic reply died on his lips when his eyes caught the peek of skin revealed when Potter lifted his arms to put on his robe. Potter had a defined, toned torso, with a small patch of hair beginning near his navel and trailing down his jeans. Oh, how Draco longed to confirm certain rumors about that part of Potter’s body...

Potter finished pulling his robes down, his unruly hair even more displaced. He looked at Draco with a lopsided smile, gesturing towards the door.

"After you."

Draco did not have to be told twice. Turning away to conceal another blush, he made for the door, instinctively reaching into his pockets to check for his wand. Ever since Potter returned it to him after his hearing with the Wizengamot, Draco was quite possessive of it. Back at Malfoy Manor, he refused to keep it off his person, even when sleeping. It was not until he returned to Hogwarts that he felt comfortable enough to keep it farther away than an arm's reach. Whether the feeling of safety came from Hogwarts or the particular company he kept was a question Draco dared not answer.

"You know Malfoy, I would've thought you'd be good at wizard's chess," Potter commented, still relishing in his victory. "I imagined your childhood was just tea and cookies and chess and whatever else you fancy folks get up to."

Draco pouted, unable to rebuff that because he _did_ spend a great portion of his childhood sipping tea and nibbling on cookies and playing chess with his mother (who Draco now suspected let him win on purpose). But it was not _his_ fault Potter proved to be surprisingly adept at wizard's chess. A glance at their board, now left abandoned on their bedroom floor, would show that Potter had absolutely steamrolled Draco.

"I don't understand why _you_ are good at it," Draco grumbled. "You claim to have never played in your life until our first year, yet—"

"I hadn't," Potter interrupted cheerfully, following Draco into the common room. The 'eighth years,' as the lot who returned from their year were called, stayed in temporary dorms modeled after Gryffindor Tower. Draco had initially been displeased by that particular fact but, considering it had been Potter who led its construction, he supposed it was only fair Potter had some creative license. After they graduated, he wondered what they would do with Potter’s particularly well-crafted feat of construction.

"Then why are you so good at it?" Draco asked while they walked through the common room and past the portrait that led to the staircase. His words were tinged with annoyance and slight jealousy— Potter _always_ did this. It was as if he wanted to appear like a paradox, a conundrum, a puzzle for Draco to solve. When really, he was just an idiotic Gryffindor who liked to annoy Draco to no ends.

A lopsided smile grew on Potter's face. "I've played against Ron, who's definitely the best in our year, and Hermione, who's arguably the second-best, for over seven years. It's only fair that after years of losing, I've become third best."

Draco’s lips pursed. The Harry Potter he remembered would have gawked at the prospect of not being the best. So why was _this_ Harry Potter quite content with being third best to his friends, albeit in something silly like wizard's chess?

It was simple moments like these that reminded Draco that his past perception of Potter was not entirely accurate. The public revered him, his friends adored him, and all adults decreed his word law, facts that were true even before Potter saved the wizarding world. So Draco had prided himself on seeing Potter for who he truly was: an arrogant git who sprouted contrarian opinions in order to seem different, starting with rejecting a Malfoy in favor of a Weasley at their first meeting.

Of course, that Harry Potter was not a complete notion of Draco's imagination. Potter was still arrogant, believing he could pass his classes by cramming the night before (even if the technique admittedly worked for Potter, who got higher marks when he reviewed the material recently). Potter was still a git, one who sneaked into the kitchens after dinner for sweets (even if he did share them with the entire common room, even the shunned Slytherins). Potter still embraced the contrarian lifestyle, seeing as he had accepted to be roommates with a former Death Eater when the option to room with Weasley was given (although that particular choice worked out in Draco's favor, as people were less inclined to harass Harry Potter's roommate).

Draco groaned internally. It had been so much easier to simply believe Potter was a self-entitled prick and hate him for it. Now, he had no excuse to dislike Potter, none at all.

Having reached the bottom of the stairs, the two walked in companionable silence towards the Great Hall. Draco jostled when Potter's swinging arm touched his, their knuckles brushing so softly that it could have been the wind hitting him. Draco sighed quietly, realizing his inner turmoil was no use.

Draco had never hated Potter. But hating someone was far easier than loving someone.

Yes, Draco Malfoy loved Harry Potter. But it had not been like this the entire time. Draco did not walk into Hogwarts head-over-heels with Potter and ready to be the best of friends (and, hypothetically, even if he had, he would never admit it). In the beginning, their silence had been tense, an undercurrent of uncertainty making it difficult to converse. But sharing a room does something incomprehensible to people. It lets you in on who they are behind closed doors, leaving it up to you to decide whether to love or hate your roommate's true self.

In Draco's case, it was the latter before it shifted to the former. He hated how Potter would joke and laugh at dinner, but fall silent and withdraw within himself the moment he was alone. He hated how Potter was suddenly the perfect pupil, completing his homework despite the fact that all his teachers expressed he could slack off a bit if he wished. He hated how Potter, once restless and curious and quite nosy, gave Draco his space and never once goaded him, never once tried to get into Draco’s business. Draco hated Potter because he continued to be perfect despite the fact that he earned the right to be imperfect. And if Potter of all people could be perfect, then Draco must be perfect, too. 

It all changed when Potter began to slip out of their room after curfew, leaving until the wee hours of the morning. After this occurred for a few consecutive nights, Draco gave in to his curiosity and followed Potter. He discovered Potter was not wandering off to shag someone, but to go on a walk. He would walk to the Astronomy Tower, to the quidditch pitch, to random hallways and staircases. Draco recognized enough locations to know that each spot had been a place of grief for Potter, ranging from Dumbledore's death to his own.

Draco followed Potter from a distance for many nights until, one evening, Potter waited for him at the bottom of the steps. That night, Potter led Draco to the last place they had seen the Room of Requirement. It was a source of particular pain for Draco: it was where Crabbe died in the flames of his own curse.

At first, the moment had been just as silent and tense as their usual day. And then, they began to talk. Once they started, they could not stop, the conversation continuing until the sun rose. Since then, Draco joined Potter on his walks, both of them leaving behind their perfect selves and sharing their flaws, their scars, and their memories. In other words, they shared their true selves, and Harry Potter's true self was even more beautiful than Draco could have ever imagined.

Draco shared memories of growing up in a traditional Pureblood family, of long nights studying family trees and being scolded for using the incorrect utensils at dinner. He shared memories of his time at Hogwarts, of his mother sending him sweets and his father sending him apologetic gifts after a particularly cruel owl. He shared memories of his time during the war, of living in constant fear that the Dark Lord would finally decide the Malfoy family was useless and do away with them all. He shared memories of his life after, of being trapped in the very house that had been his prison during the war and the only kind owl being the one inviting him to return to Hogwarts. He shared his now faded Dark Mark, and allowed Potter to trace the scars his own curse had left on Draco's torso during sixth-year.

Potter shared memories of being raised by cruel Muggle relatives, of being sent to bed without dinner and having literal bars on his window. He shared memories of his time with the Weasleys, of summer nights playing Quidditch and finally having a family. He shared memories of his journey during the war, of cold nights spent sleeping in a tent with a despair like none other. He shared memories of his life after the war, of cherishing every smile of his orphaned godson and working tirelessly to restore Hogwarts in time for the start of the school year. He shared the words engraved on the back of his wrist— 'I must not tell lies'— and allowed Draco to trace every single letter.

Harry Potter's life was nothing like the folklore the public, including Draco, had fabricated. Harry Potter did not grow up basking in fame. He did not capitalize off his father's wealth nor his godfather's enchanted home. He did not spend the war in a blaze of glory and triumph. And he certainly did not lap up the attention and adoration brought by saving the wizarding world yet again. No; the real Harry Potter was not only a great wizard, but a great man.

So no, Draco did not become friends with Harry Potter overnight. It took night after night of keeping each other company while they visited invisible graves, of holding each other after a particularly gruesome nightmare, of forgiving the scars they left on each other’s bodies and promising to never hurt each other again. It took day after day of being in a classroom together, Potter silently partnering with Draco in Defense Against the Dark Arts to protect him from malignant classmates, and Draco returning the favor by partnering with Potter during Potions to protect him from his own self. It took afternoons of studying together in the library, of Draco's elegant notes supplementing Potter's scribbles. It took weekends of spending time together, of Potter introducing Draco to various Muggle games and novels, of walking alongside the lake in the daylight for a change, of deciding to remain in their room and not be their perfect selves on lazy Sunday's.

Somewhere between the days and afternoons and nights of learning who Harry Potter was behind closed doors, Draco fell in love with the imperfectly perfect Boy Who Lived.

It was the silence that took Draco’s attention away from his memories to the now.; Potter was never silent. Sneaking a glance, Draco found that Potter's expression was distant, his mind evidently elsewhere as well. Was he reminiscing on the sad memories, like the lonely childhood and bloody adulthood? Draco hoped not. He hoped Potter was reminiscing on the happy memories, like the laughter of his found family and the smiles of his infant godson. If Draco got to reminisce on his only happy memories from recent years, then so should Potter.

They reached the doors of the Great Hall, the chatter of voices muffled but still audible in the hallway. Draco had been surprised that so many students elected to attend a school that had been a battlefield mere months ago. But when news spread that Harry Potter was to attend Hogwarts for one final year, parents everywhere gushed how no place would be safer.

How revolting.

Draco did not dare to spare Potter any form of goodbye as he pushed open the door, walking with purpose towards the Slytherin table. He could feel Potter's eyes drilling holes into his retreating back, and it took all his self-restraint not to look. The last time he did, Potter's pleading eyes had been enough to guilt Draco into joining the large group of eighth years who opted to sit at the Gryffindor table. That dinner had been unbearably awkward, with only Lovegood and Potter behaving like their normal selves. Draco had not dared to be himself either, biting back his snarky remarks for fear of offending Potter's band of friends and fans. Even when Potter devilishly proclaimed the Holyhead Harpies would rather sign Lovegood than Weasley, or when he sided with Granger that being a dentist was a perfectly respectable job, Draco remained silent. How was it possible that only he recognized that Potter was full of shit? Absolute, utter, contrarian shit.

Throughout the dinner, Draco had been watched, judged, disliked, maybe even hated, all things he would prefer to feel from the comfort of his House table. The horrid memory strengthening his resolve, Draco kept walking. 

Merlin, since when was walking away from Potter so difficult?

 _I don't like this,_ Draco thought darkly. _I don't like this at all._

He knew Potter was still looking, a small shiver running down his back from the weight of Potter's gaze. There was something so endlessly fascinating about Potter's eyes that demanded Draco's attention more so than anything ever had. His eyes distracted Draco, making him lose fantastically at chess or forget the motions of a simple blocking spell during class. When Potter concentrated, as he had been during their game, his eyes became an unusually still ocean. But when he wanted something, those ocean waters parted and Potter's gaze beckoned Draco with a yearning that made it criminal to do anything but walk into those waters and be engulfed by them...

Draco blinked rapidly, realizing a second too late he had walked past his friends. Before they realized his mistake, he quickly retraced his steps and slipped into the open seat beside Goyle. The eighth-year Slytherins— Zabini, Nott, Goyle, Parkinson, Greengrass, and Bulstrode— were large enough in numbers to form a group at the Slytherin table, safely away from the other eighth years.

"You're late," Parkinson said in mock surprise. "Let me guess: spending time with Potter again?" Her eyes shone with false curiosity. "Were you two studying in the library? Taking moonlit walks by the lake? Maybe brushing each other's hair and gazing endlessly into each other's eyes?"

"A game of chess, if you must know," Draco said in a clipped tone, long accustomed to Pansy's instigating antics. That did not mean he liked the idea that she— and, therefore, anyone else who engaged in gossip, which happened to be everyone and their mothers at Hogwarts— knew he and Potter spent an absurd amount of time together. Draco guessed Potter now spent as much time with him as he did with Granger and Weasley, if not more.

Pansy sniffed, miffed Draco did not elaborate. Ever since she abandoned her schoolgirl crush on him, she treated him like that annoying cousin you don't particularly like but are forced to play with.

"Well I for one am glad you and Potter engage exclusively in boring activities. Means he has a need in life for real entertainment," Nott spoke up, wriggling his eyebrows at Draco. "Zabini and I have a wager, and all of you are invited to join. Especially you, Malfoy."

Draco knew better than to glance at the Gryffindor table in reaction to Potter's name. He kept his eyes glued to his plate, barely registering what he was serving himself.

 _I don't like this,_ he brooded in suspicion of his friends’ sudden interest in Potter. But Draco allowed the voices around him to drift into the background. He had never been less interested in his friends or their wagers; he had become obsessed with Harry Potter.

Draco hated everything about the effect even one peek at the git would have: blood would creep into his cheeks, a jab of longing would stab him somewhere between his heart and stomach, and the inevitable defeat of all logic would occur when fantasies danced in his mind. He hated it all.

So of course, Draco shifted his gaze forward to find himself in direct view of Harry bloody Potter.

Potter's naturally untidy hair had gained shape since Draco forced him to use proper conditioner. It was still unruly, but his locks fell into gentle waves on his head. Draco's hand clenched into a fist around his spoon, his fingertips aching to brush the stray curls from Potter's stupid forehead, a forehead flawed by his lightning bolt scar. Yet even that scar was beautiful, a testament to the type of man it took to face the monster who gave it to him and win. His smile was wide as he and the other eighth years were captivated by whatever their topic of conversation was, a lone dimple appearing on his cheek. He had forgotten to do his tie, leaving it draped around his neck like a loose scarf.

 _Oh Harry,_ Draco thought forlornly. _What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?_

"Draco Malfoy!" Pansy's nasal voice interrupted his inner dialogue. "Are you even listening?"

Draco snapped his gaze away from Potter's stupidly beautiful face, wiping his own to don a neutral expression.

"Listening to what?" Draco deadpanned. "Nobody told me you lot were saying something of importance."

Zabini rolled his eyes, while Nott looked at Draco like he had lost it.

"I literally did the second you sat down," Nott said, flabbergasted. "Or did you not hear that either?"

"We were discussing Zabini and Nott's bet to see who can get a boyfriend first," Pansy huffed before Draco could reply. "I would think _you'd_ be interested, seeing as you have as good a chance as anyone to win if you joined."

Draco rolled his eyes. "And why on earth would I have any interest in a boyfriend?"

"Because, dearest Draco," Zabini drawled, "If you hadn't noticed, we were just in a war, which left little time to dabble in romance. Now that pretty boy Potter cleaned all that up for us, we get to enjoy the flood of people who are realizing life is too short, so shag as often as possible before we get into another war."

"And seeing as this whole year is an embarrassing attempt to give us back a piece of our long-lost childhoods, it's only fair for those of us not coupled up have fun," Nott finished, eying the Gryffindor table in disgust. They had spent enough time gossiping about this year's couples to know who Nott was referring to. Finnigan and Thomas were the bromance gone romance, whereas Weasley and Lovegood were the unforeseen couple everyone was secretly envious of.

"And which poor bloke are you two planning to pursue?" Draco asked, still not convinced they were serious.

Zabini and Nott exchanged wicked smiles.

"Harry Potter."

Malfoy's spoon slipped through his fingers, splattering mashed potatoes.

"Oi!" Goyle complained, wiping gravy from his cheek. "Watch out with that, mate."

Draco ignored Goyle, opting to narrow his eyes at his friends. He picked up his spoon, his knuckles going white from his tightening grip.

"Why Potter?" Draco demanded in a low voice with thinly concealed anger. "Of all the people you could pick from in this bloody school, why in Slytherin's good name would you two want Potter?"

"What's not to want?" Nott scoffed. "He's fit, popular, and a goody-two-shoes with a dark past. He's like a sexy little puzzle just waiting to be done."

Zabini nodded eagerly, adding, "The perfect boyfriend. I mean, who wouldn't want to go out with the world's dashing savior?"

A knot formed in Draco's stomach, slithering around his insides and squeezing. They couldn't let him have this one thing, huh? Potter had always been... not his per se, but their relationship was entitled to some exclusivity. He may be the savior of the wizarding world, but Potter was _his_ rival from boyhood, then _his_ enemy throughout the war, and now _his_ roommate. Did that not mean something?

Draco's anger must have been written all over his face, but it was misinterpreted.

"Cheer up Malfoy," Zabini smirked. "He'll still be at your beck and call whenever you need a friend. You'll just have to learn to share."

The knot squeezed tighter at the word 'friend.' No matter what Draco thought, Harry Potter was not ‘his’ anything. Harry Potter was nothing beyond his friend. 

"I wonder what Potter's like as a boyfriend," Pansy mused, an ulterior meaning behind her words as she looked over at the Gryffindor table. "You think he's good at snogging?"

"I don't want to just snog him," Zabini snorted, also looking over with devilish interest. Zabini elbowed Nott conspiratorially, the two boys exchanging grins. "You catch my drift?"

"Obviously," Nott, who was usually the more laidback of the duo, obnoxiously stood in his seat, neck craning to look over at the Gryffindor table, too. "He can duel with my wand any day."

The sound of exploding glass snapped everyone's eyes off Potter. A jug of pumpkin juice had erupted, its contents now spilling off the table and onto Zabini and Nott's laps. Curses escaped both boys' lips as they stood up rapidly, the juice spilling down their robes and onto their shoes.

Pansy lazily waved her wand to clean up the mess, her inquisitive gaze on a flushed Draco. He, however, refused to meet it, opting to reach for his gauntlet (now full of chamomile tea) and taking a shaky sip.

Zabini and Nott excused themselves to go change, grumbling about cheap kitchenware. The second they were out of earshot, Pansy scooted to sit across from Draco.

"Care to explain why the jug right in front of the two people undressing Potter with their eyes mysteriously exploded?" Pansy asked, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. "Or must I drag it out of you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco grumbled, twisting the gauntlet in his hands to swirl the murky water. He knew that Pansy knew what he knew: like an infant wizard, his magic had acted on its own volition in response to his anger.

"Of course you don't," Pansy said smoothly, picking up her own cup and swirling it in her hands as well. Suddenly, she slammed it on the table, its contents spilling a bit. From his seat, Draco smelled the pungent fumes of alcohol; Pansy must be quite sick of his shit.

"Look Draco, you cannot honestly be surprised everyone in the school, and I mean everyone, has a not-so-secret boner for Potter. He's always been Hogwart's resident celebrity, except now he's also a hot war hero," Pansy spelled out. Draco swallowed hard; so he was not the only one who noticed Potter had physically improved. Except he, unlike Zabini and Nott, also noticed how Potter changed beneath the lean muscles and sharp jaw and brilliant eyes. He noticed how Potter was more reflective, how Potter was more patient, how Potter was more kind...

"Okay, stop it!" Pansy snatched Draco's cup away, and he barely registered the soft burn of hot water droplets falling on his fingers. She placed the cup between them, and he grudgingly looked up.

"Let's say you joined in on Zabini and Nott's bet. Out of the three, _you_ have the best chance of winning." The knot in Draco's stomach stopped squeezing, pausing to listen. "You and Potter have been obsessed with each other since you met. Not only that, you two are _roommates._ Name something more romantic than that!"

Examples of the "and they were roommates" trope flashed in Draco's mind: Lovegood and Weasley, Finnigan and Thomas, even Parkinson and Granger had some tension. The sudden recollection that Nott roomed with Longbottom and Zabini with Weasley made for two very amusing scenarios; he'll have to use that as ammunition to turn the tables and tease them for once.

All in all, Pansy had a point. There was something about rooming with someone who was not exclusively your friend that got people's motors running.

Pansy's gaze softened as she watched Draco ponder, and her voice lowered so he had to lean in a bit to catch her words.

"I don't particularly like Potter, and I don't particularly like you. But you both deserve happiness, more so than anyone else in this bloody school. And if that happiness lies with each other, then so be it," she murmured, her eyes showing more honesty than Draco had seen in all his years of knowing her. "At least imagine it, Draco. It can’t hurt to let yourself dream a bit."

Draco's eyes fell away from her gaze and onto the tea in front of them. _'It can’t hurt to let yourself dream a bit...'_

He let his focus slip beyond reach, making the gauntlet appear like a Pensieve in his muddy vision. What if Draco sat with Harry at dinner and called him out on all his contrarian shit while squeezing his thigh under the table to signal he was just pushing his buttons? What if they wandered around Europe like they both wanted to, taking baby Teddy to see the ocean for the first time? What if they took moonlit walks by the coast, holding hands and letting passerby’s marvel at their love? What if they stayed roommates after Hogwarts, pooling together their funds to have a place with a spare room for whenever Teddy or their friends visited? What if, what if, what if...

A commotion near the door brought Draco's attention back to the present. Nott and Zabini were making a show of sauntering towards the Gryffindor table. After exchanging words with Potter, those seated shifted to make space for them. But of course, the obnoxious gits just had to sit on either side of Potter.

And just like that, Draco snapped out of it. The tea was not a Pensieve, just like his fantasies were not a possibility. He can't ever go to dinner with Potter, nor travel with him or get a place with him or raise a baby with him. Those things would never be.

"That's where you're wrong, Pansy," Draco spoke, his words tight from his determination to keep his voice steady. "I can't let myself dream or imagine, because Potter and I could never be together."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't like it!" Draco exclaimed, grateful that the eighth years at the Gryffindor table kept the attention away from the eighth years at the Slytherin table. "I don't like knowing that a mere brush of hands or a small gaze can make me blush like an idiot. I don't like that everyone in the school wants him, that everyone gossips and fantasizes and dreams about him. I don't like that he can make time go slower or faster, that he can make even the most boring task seem like the most interesting occasion ever. If I wanted to participate in some archaic gold rush, I would join Nott and Zabini and flock towards Potter like he's the last man in the world. But guess what Pansy?"

Draco stood up, ignoring the confused expressions of the other eighth-year Slytherins.

"I refuse to seek happiness in someone who makes me feel all these things I don't like to feel," Draco declared. "So don't encourage me to dream about him. Potter's not a piece of gold and, even if he were," Draco paused for added effect. "I don't like a gold rush."

Ignoring that his knot had migrated from his stomach to his throat, Draco hurried as quickly as he could towards the door. But just as he surged forward to push it open, a hand reached to stop him. Draco did not have to turn his head to know whose hand it was; there was only one person whose touch could ever freeze him in place like this.

The world seemed to slow down, the voices in the room warping until they were merely background noise. Draco swallowed, licking his suddenly chapped lower lip and biting it nervously. He refused to look at Potter, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected Draco, now and before and forevermore.

"Are you okay?"

Potter's voice was low, employing the tone he donned whenever he comforted Draco after a particularly awful nightmare. The softness and evident affection made Draco weak. Everything about Harry Potter made Draco weak.

"Malfoy? Malfoy, look at me."

No. No, no he can't. Draco knows what will happen if he does.

"Draco. Draco, please look at me."

The use of his first name and the added 'please' surprised Draco enough to break his concentration. He turned his head cautiously, bracing for impact.

Potter's eyes gleamed with emotion, concern written all over his face. The flames of the torches that lined the walls reflected in his eyes, twinkling like stars. They were guiding Draco deeper into Potter's gaze, the green waters parting, inviting Draco to jump in...

The air from Draco's lungs seemingly disappeared, his bones evaporating like crushed dust. This is why Draco can not bear to hold Potter's gaze; his eyes made falling in love feel like flying so high the air gets thin and you can't breathe, you can't think, and your body shuts down and all you want is to stop but you keep falling and you keep flying and—

"Draco!" Potter's tone was now urgent, and his fingers wrapped decidedly around Draco's limp hand.

Before now, the only times Potter had gripped his hand was in the cover of darkness. His touch had literally and figuratively guided him, pulling him through secret passageways and dark hallways, away from nightmares fraught with dark magic and dying bodies and distant screams.

And now, in view of all the school to see, Potter's touch did the same thing it always did: it guided Draco. Time returned to normal, and the voices of his classmates rose to regular volume. He could look into the green abyss of Potter's eyes without getting lost. He could fall without flying.

Maybe, just maybe, he could love without hurting.

Finding his voice, Draco managed to croak, "I'm fine. Just feeling a bit... A bit out of it. I'm going to bed early, so refrain from your usual racket when you get to the room."

Potter let out a large exhale, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time.

"Before you go, I need you to know something," Potter said with a lopsided smile. This one was new— it was almost shy. "I'm ready to cash in my favor."

Draco frowned. "I had nothing to do with Nott or Zabini's antics, so don't ask me to reign them in or—"

"No! No, it’s not involving them. Well, not really," Potter shrugged a bit, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't be but didn't particularly care. "Hear me out first and then tell me if you're in or not."

Draco sighed. If it had been anyone else, he would have said 'no' and left. But as always, Harry Potter was going to get his way.

"Fine," Draco snapped in an annoyed tone. "What is it?"

Like a mood ring, Potter's eyes shifted to convey his emotions. Want, desire.

Hope.

"Join Nott and Zabini's bet," Potter said, his words barely discernible through his rushed tone.

Draco blinked, his mind absolutely blank for the first time in weeks.

"Wait, what?" He asked, sounding awfully like Potter in every social situation.

"Join Nott and Zabini's bet," Potter repeated, this time with more confidence. "I promise that if you genuinely want to win, you will. In fact," he got a teasing gleam in his eye, "It may be the only game you win for a while, seeing as you always lose when you play against me."

"A while?" Draco repeated weakly, his mind barely managing to compute what exactly was happening.

"Or as long as you want," Potter amended quickly, his teasing facade slipping. "We can give it a go for a while or forever or, well, however long—or little!— you want. But that's only if you're okay with this. Up to you, really." 

For someone who held his head high when telling various teachers, government officials, and evil wizards to piss off, Potter was awful at romantic speeches. 

_Is that what this is?_ Draco pieced together. _Is this the idiot's attempt at a romantic speech?_

Draco suddenly became aware that his fingers were still interlaced with Potter's. And for all the time he had spent meditating on Potter's fine eyes, he had yet to notice that the green was contrasted by the darkness of dilated pupils. And now that Draco could look closely at them without becoming overwhelmed, he found Potter's eyes had specks of gold in them, too.

 _But I don't like a gold rush,_ Draco reminded himself. _I don't like a gold rush one bit._

So why was it that Potter's eyes were so inviting, that his touch grounded him, that his words made Draco's mind go quiet and still and utterly at peace?

Seeming to be just as in tune with Draco's emotions as the latter was with his, Potter gently squeezed his hand. 

"If it makes any difference, the bet would just be for show. Wouldn't be fair if people found out you won without trying.” Potter's tone audibly softened. "But what’s not for show is this.” He waved their joined hands. “We can keep the most important stuff between us, like we always have."

"Us," Draco repeated softly. For there to be an 'us,' that meant Potter must be his.

Draco felt a smile tug at the end of his lips, and he returned Harry's grip on his hand. They continued to block the doorway, gazing at each other with crooked smiles and hopeful eyes and interwoven fingers and a plan to finally get what they wanted all along. Potter was Draco's, and Draco was Potter's. They were an 'us.'

It was too late for Draco to claim he was not in love, almost in love, barely in love. Draco Malfoy has loved Harry Potter in secret for as long as he could remember. And now, Harry wanted to love Draco for all the world to see.

Draco Malfoy may not like it, but he loved Harry Potter. And if Harry was gold, then Draco will just have to learn to love a gold rush.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope my very indulgent work made you just as happy reading it as I was to write it. Comments and kudos are appreciated :)
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr! Find me at @ashley-luv


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